Make love to me, that will heal all my wounds
by Little.Latina
Summary: Somewhere in her apartment there was a clock ticking, clockwise emitting tic-tacs that had previously passed unnoticed by both their pair of ears because they had been too lost in the heat of the moment.


She was nested in his chest, lying on her stomach on top of him, and him lying on his back. She had her face completely buried in the crook of his neck, so every time she breathed it was his male scent she inhaled and every time she exhaled it her hot breath would caress his skin, causing his whole body to shiver just like hers had trembled under the magic touch of his hands some moments ago, when it was him on top of her and her elaborate respiration filled the now silent room.

Both her legs had somehow ended up firmly wrapped around his left leg, as if she wanted to make sure he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon (hadn't she already learned that there was not and would never be a better place for him that by her side?). Their bodies were entangled in an almost naked embrace (she was wearing his boxers, something she always did ever since the first time they had spent the night together); their breathing patterns remained rhythmic and their hearts beat synchronized as they lay there on the floor of the spacious bathroom of her apartment, enjoying the afterglow of a torrid, spontaneous session of lovemaking they hadn't actually planned on starting; they had seen themselves involved in the whole act before any of them could either stop the fever that all of a sudden had overwhelmed them to the very core, or move it to the bedroom, where they could have lain in the soft, warm sheets of her bed instead of the cold, hard material their anatomies were resting on now, surrounded by the articles of clothing that had earlier been ripped off of their bodies, heartbreakingly consumed as they were by an insatiable necessity of feeling the other's skin against their own with no cloth barriers clogging in the middle.

Somewhere in her apartment there was a clock ticking, clockwise emitting tic-tacs that had previously passed unnoticed by both their pair of ears because they had been too lost in the heat of the moment to pay attention to anything that wasn't her moans (barely audible, because hadn't he crashed his mouth against hers in order to silence them and had she kept on begging for a final wave of pleasure to come he would have let go immediately, finding himself unable to last one more minute) or the drowned words he had whispered inside her mouth to sooth her.

Ever since he took away the innocence she had held onto until she met the man she knew had been born to be the love of her live, the man she wanted to give everything to, including that last piece of her she hadn't wanted to give to anyone else because other women's she had known's stories (her mother's, especially) had somehow led her to believe it wasn't as magic and pure as it should be if you weren't complete, mad, terrible and passionately in love with the other person, and she hadn't understood what those words meant or felt like until she met him; ever since that sweet first time, their lovemaking had been followed up by a ritual that made it unique, a ritual that made it only theirs and equal to no one else's.

Whether the encounter occurred in their bed (there were nights they wouldn't sleep at all. There were nights they simply didn't seem to be able to get enough of each other, nights their lovemaking seemed just never ending. There where nights they started drawing pleasure from the other's body again before they could even come to breathe normally after the last round. There were weekends or days off they wouldn't get out of bed at all, he would just keep her blissfully pinned down to the mattress), or on the floor (how many time had they made love on the kitchen floor? Countless times; it was their favorite thing about the 'cooking lessons' he was supposed to teach her and she was supposed to take because he insisted on that 'it's not as hard as you think it is and I am sure you won't burn the house down if you try this, come on, it's foolproof!'. No matter what, all those 'cooking lessons' would end up with them half naked, covered in sweat and entangled), the couch (innumerable, they were incalculable the nights he had spent with her on that couch, stroking and licking each inch of her body until they both were spent), the shower (how many times had they showered together in the morning before work, so their day would start in the best of all possible ways? How many times had they showered together after work so the accumulated stress would be literally washed away not only by the hot water but also by the caresses and kisses they would drop on each other's wet, heated up skin?), the last few minutes were the part they enjoyed the most.

Each one of those times had been different at some point, of course, but there were things that had never varied: passion and devotion dominated the act and it wasn't as much about physical reactions as if it was about worshipping each other, their eyes were always locked as they rocked back and forth, the caresses and kisses were constant and while she lost of all of her capacity to speak coherently he soothed her with his words (she would never for as long as she lived forget the effects his words had on her, or how much she loved it when he whispered in her ears that she was so beautiful she _had_ to be an angel).

And the last few minutes were the ones they enjoyed the most.

Just before a final shudder attacked their bodies, just before they came undone into each other's arms, their pace would grow slower until the thrusting ceased almost completely; he would use any remnants of physical strength he could muster to sit her up on his lap - still him inside of her and her wrapped around him - and then would gently rock her back and forth to insanity before sanity could be recovered, his teeth hungrily tugging at her upper lip, re-playing that first kiss she had surprised him with the night destiny had found them alone together in the middle of a dark hallway when they were supposed to be helping preventing a major crisis from shaking everything up. The exact, flawless replay of that kiss would linger until they collapsed in wonderful synchrony to later come to rest her atop him. And in that peaceful position she would fall asleep, her face buried in the crook of his neck, her legs wrapped around his left leg, his hands caressing all the way up and down her back nonstop, silence being the only audible sound until he drifted off to sleep as well.

This time, it hadn't been any different, it hadn't. But the moment the clockwise struck midnight the soothing atmosphere they had fallen into after reaching the highest point of pleasure and release they had ever experienced broke, as if all of a sudden they had been dragged out the blissful state passion and love had led them into and taken back to the real world, becoming conscious of where they were and what had just happened in that bathroom floor.

What had just happened in that bathroom floor and what had led that to happen, because that afterglow was the result of the heartbreaking, painful, suffocating conversation that had been maintained between the two of them, a conversation during which she came undone in his arms, a conversation during which she cried her eyes out until they hurt so bad she couldn't keep them open. A conversation during which they both confessed things they never guessed they would confess to each other, they told the other things they had assumed would forever remain unsaid and got off their chests a weight they had been living with ever since he had been taken away from her.

That conversation in which for a moment she was sure she would pass out right there and then surrounded by the arms of the only man she would ever belong to, a man that despite everything was there, kneeling on her bathroom's floor, holding her tighter than ever because he was scared she would faint if he didn't do so, not trusting her fragile, outraged by life's circumstances anatomy to keep it all together; that conversation during which for a matter of seconds he felt like the worst person alive in the whole Earth because his actions had been powerful enough to affect her the way they had and pull her to the edge of the precipice, during that conversation had been said things that needed to be discussed, things that couldn't be overlooked.

That conversation that had taken place before his lips captured hers in a passionate kiss and they forgot the rest of the world had started the same way it ended:

"_Are you feeling better_?"

"_No_"

"_Is there anything I can do for you?_"

"_Make love to me, that'll heal all my wounds_"


End file.
